I blame you, Mister 'Rock Shatter'
by emmahh
Summary: I would like to think that I could blame something for pushing me off my safe platform of stupidity and ignorance, and into the realm of positive perceptions and characteristic emotions. Luckily for me, I can.


**Disclaimer: Oblivion and Elder Scrolls is owned by Bethesda…lucky bastards. **

Chapter One: "Welcome to my downfall."

Rudely, I harshly rapped my thin fingers against the back of the wooden pew in front on me, earning me several glares from others that populated the daily service. With my usual stubbornness, I refused to cease at my boredom-created task, hmphing as I impatiently waited for the ten strikes of the chapel bell: the sound of my sweet, sweet freedom

After several moments of remaining still, except for the swift, undying movements of my fingers; I rewarded myself with a wriggle in my chair. My coarse linens did nothing to relieve the painfully cold, hard and extremely uncomfortable, darkish timber pew below me.

It was the early morning of Sundas, and I unfortunately had to pleasure of sitting through a three-hour service, listening to Dumania Jirich, the blonde haired Imperial Priest of the Chapel of Dibella here in Anvil, drabble along about the Nine. Absently, I regarded her red and purple velvet outfit and wondered how someone of seemingly lower class could own such a garment. Out of the Empire's grants given to each Nine Chapels; or perhaps pocketed from the city's folk own donations? I quickly tuned into what she was saying, only because my neck was starting to hurt too much from staring absently up at the stone ceiling: "…My gifts are bestowed upon me by the Goddess of Beauty herself from which I speak to you with the voice of Dibella and greet you with love. They say I was selected largely as Dibella's Priest because of my loving nature and striking looks…" I repressed a snort as I rolled my eyes. I definitely could take her for saying something as self-centred and big-headed as that.

As I tried to think civil, non-murderous thoughts about the middle-aged Priest, who was standing at the head of the Chapel on red and gold trimmed trail that led from the altar (over the year's of spending endless hours with my rear-end parked on the hard pews, I had time of observe my lacking surroundings); my mother elbowed me in the stomach, probably in a futile attempt to stop me squirming in my seat.

My mother, a well-built Nord, gave me a rather displeased look, pointing her index finger at me; a gesture that silenced me straight away. Her cold, frosty eyes under heavy eyebrows gave me a harsh warning; her wide, reddened, northern nose barely resembling mine. Her full lips were pulled taunt and stern, as stringy black hair fell from her head, scarcely reaching her shoulders.

She was giving me the look that she always wore around me. The look that made her look at least five years older than she already was. I guess I just brought out the years in her. I imagined, in her eyes, I was just an accident child of an accident of a husband.

It was year ago when my father- Bjalfi the Contemptible, left my mother and I alone at Whitmond Farm. Actually it was my thirteenth birthday when he took off for the hills with the family heirloom: a _magical_ mace, which someone actually bothered to call 'Rockshatter'. I later learned that he had headed for the ruins of Fort Strand and planned to join the Marauder gang there. Leaving to chitchat with some thieving, selfish savages? He's done well for himself.

I didn't feel the loss of my father. As his name suggested he wasn't a very likable man. He was a typical Nord: loud, exceptionally stubborn, and dim-witted, with no inclination to knowledge but bore a passion for brutality and war. It seemed when he was around he had high goals for me. Goals that I couldn't care to even attempt to reach. He'd send me to practice for my future recruitment into the Fighters Guild, or down to the docks to gain experience onboard the merchant and pirate ships. He attempted to teach me the art of the blade, the axe and the hammer, and readied me for days in the armoury. He would place little emphasis on proper education and social training in academies or schools, but trained me by traditional Nordic culture.

Don't get me wrong, from an early age I took on his lessons like any naïve child, with wide blue eyes and a heart full of curiosity. I participated hungrily, thirsty for new knowledge, new skills and abilities, and over the years I grew and excelled in many fields. He made sure I was able to defend myself- a necessity for all Nords; taught me common forestry and woodworking skills, such as skinning and creating a variety of thick furred armours. He taught me to catalogue the stars, map the seas and land, and how to read and write. He taught me everything I know, and it wasn't long before I even excelled him. But that was all until I hit the age of about eleven.

Even on this day, I'm not quite sure what happened in me. It happened as suddenly as a strike of an assassin's dagger. It was a sudden wave of stubbornness and ignorance, one that developed as a lay on the yellowing-green grass, watching the stars. Till this day it still remains: a cold, dreading swell in the pits of the stomach, constantly reminding me of my insignificance. Compared to the stars, and the moons that shone so brightly that night, I was nothing. I was never to be a pawn of the Divines- who I'm not even sure exist enough have been watching down on me that day.

From then on in I would have none of my father's lesson or plans for my future. Every time he sent me of a job, or on an expedition to learn, I'd silently slink away with no ambition or hopes for the future. My skills were already sharpened and my mind was quick. I had no further need for advancement- I was sure I never would.

Town life in Anvil is slow and easy. Rarely have I left the city walls or the property of the farm and never have a found the urge to go and investigate the mountainous, yellow and green scrub-filled territory around me. My feet only know the small, well-trodden road down to the city gate, and the limited districts of Anvil I visit.

I avoid the dock side and the castle. I am not fond of the sailor's down by the harbour, nor are they fond of us land-folk. They haunt the inns there, and terrorize with their drunken and foreign behaviour. On many occasion I've had to walk down there to pick up a few needed supplies, only to have some dirty man, with crooked teeth, attempt to speak to me in a tongue that I do not understand.

Sometimes the pirates of the ships look at me with a lust-fuelled glisten in their one-patched eyes. They would ask Norbert Lelles: the close-eyed Breton who runs the general store by the water; "'ow much for the boy?" before sending me their best smile. Lelles, the fair trader he is, though maybe not the best speller (I've noticed his shop sign reads 'Mercandise', rather than 'Merchandise'), would always shoo them away, politely replying that 'the boy' is not for sale. Afterwards, he'd give me a friendly nudge and tell me that I best be on my way home, lest I wish that to happen again.

Akatosh above would know that I hastily disappeared out of there, not wanting to be a release for sexual tension after many long months at sea.

I avoided the castle district for a completely differently reason. I had been scolded many times for even being close to that area, and was told that my small, grubby body was not to be seen anyway near the high-end matters of state of the Empire. Apparently the Anvil men who stood guard at the gates had been told that I was some sort of street urchin and needed to be disposed of as soon as possible.

Evidently my accessibility to my own city was limited, despite that fact that in the future I can't see myself leaving. Sometimes at night I wake up in a cold sweat as I see is endless days filled with repeated patterns and repeated actions.

With my father gone with my mother's precious heirloom, I was free to plan out my life, in all its unsuccessful glory. It had already been a year since then, and I had no future prospects for joining any of the four Guilds.

I simply refused to become part of the Fighters Guild faction, only because of an older childish stubbornness that I drilled into myself as I rejected the advancement lessons that began after the age of eleven. I was more than adapt with using a blade, and had an accurate hit as a marksman and that's merely all I wanted of myself.

The Mage's Guild always caused me to scrunch up my nose in distaste. I despised the Mages that would gallivant around, casting their spells and altering what is meant to be unchanged. Even being in there presence caused an unhealthy fire to burn in my veins. I would grind my teeth in frustration, forcing myself to remain calm, and use all my will not to launch at their throats and crave my fingernails into their exposed skin. I partially understood my dislike and to me every Mage seemed to be a cheat. To me, they were too scared and weak to brandish a _proper_ weapon such as a blade, or axe. But my hate, and the horrible feeling of disgust that settled at the back of my throat, only made in a hypocrite. I was more than adapt at the ways of the Mage. Not just the application of spells and enchantments like most people would refer to, but the theory and knowledge that came with it. I could recite large amounts of text from scholarly books, read the future from the stars and moons and name almost all alchemy ingredients and name their properties. I could cast a fireball, conjure a scamp and create a veil of invisibility, though I never used my application skills outside my initial lessons with the Mages Guild. Back then, I was seen as some rare Nordic child, and showed great promise as a strong and powerful Mage.

It was as I grew older and wiser, that my hate slowly developed. Not a day went by when I didn't learn something dark and deceitful about the Mages that made me sour. They were all cheats and couldn't be trusted; and in ways, more deadly than an assassin. They were all smiles and friendly small-talk on the outside, but on the inside they were snide, foul creatures that would swim in their own powerful of other-worldly forces. I saw how it worked; they would attempt to create a 'friendship' with the strongest, but in a way this was barely more than a bargaining for protection. Protection from each other. Why?; Because they were all deathly afraid. Paranoid. All it took was a toxic concoction to be slipped in their mead, wine or ale; or a complex command spell that could make then disappear or unwillingly take their own life.

They saw power in me, one that could rally the expertise of many other Mages. Despite my skills, they still took me for stupid: like some oblivious twelve-year old. They would gossip, connive and conspire and I was unwillingly drawn into their plots as someone they guessed to be easily manipulated. They would talk to me with simple words that I was sure to understand. _'…make sure you make it look like an accident. It _has_ to be an accident. Perhaps she tripped over and fell down the stairs…or better still, some experiment that went wrong.'_ The man had tittered back then, a wry grin spreading across his face, _'Next time she goes to pick up her mortar and pestle- KAH! Send a powerful fireball her way, but make sure your unseen when you strike! Don't be seen, we want no witnesses! And make it powerful! Very powerful!_ _It MUST strike her dead first go. Once she is dead, slump her over that alchemy apparatus she is always toying with. Char her face, arms and hands, as well as her alembic. That will make it look like an experiment. Once she is gone, we'll be able to study as we wish, without her lingering and loitering over our shoulders. I'll show you a little trick I can do. Would you like to see that? Maybe I could teach you a little. Since Hannibal Traven out-ruled it, it has been quite hard to practice openly. Her constant surveillance has only made it harder. I can help you become more powerful, you know? I can teach you to communicate with the dead, and if you're good enough, maybe even raise them. You could have an undead army at your finger-tips… if you agreed of course. I can't let you go today if you're not with me on this… I can't let you run off and tell _her_, can I? Well, do you agree? Or do I need to cut out you tongue so you don't speak a word of this to anyone? What will it be boy?_

Looking back to it now, it's rather hard to believe how _stupid_ and _oblivious_ the involved Mages were themselves. They never guessed that I, the small, stupid child would actually disagree to their schemes. They never guessed that I, the small, stupid child would actually act against them. They never guessed that I, the small, stupid child might think about using a paralysis spell.

What happened after that was easy really. Easy and simple, though, maybe a little bit to difficult and complex for the involved Mages. A simple paralysis spell with an easy enchantment, rendered them still for several seconds, in which time we exchanged a couple of words on my behalf clearly explaining that I would not be some Mage's minion and that they could expect a visit from the 'her' that was implied. Afterwards I summoned a powerful Storm Atronach, giving it some quick instructions: 'Escape, Kill,' before high-tailing right out of there. Personally, I think that's a good enough reason not to want to join the Mages faction.

The first loud strike of the Chapel bell that signalled the end of the service pulled me from my thoughts. Hastily I brushed my black hair from my Nordic blue eyes and swept it to the side. Standing, and straightening up, I pressed down any creases on my favourite plaid shirt: the one with arm-length green and white tartan sleeves, and a tightly fitted, brown leather vest to go over the top. Following my mother and the procession out of the second last row of pews, I exited the Chapel and entered the rain.

There was quite a crowd on the Chapel steps, as town folk huddled under the shelter, not too keen to be drenched by the heavy rain. Slumping my shoulders, I gazed skyward checking for any signs of relenting but the normally brilliant blue was a wash in a new sea of grey. Clouds of grey and ungodly black shrouded the sun's light, now veiling the land its immense shadow. Not particularly wanting to walk all the way home in the rain and unnatural darkness, I turned to my mother for her opinion on the matter.

"Are you coming over to 'The Court's Arms'?" My mother yelled over the rain to another stocky Nord standing next to her- one of the many that lived in Anvil. Many of them enjoyed ships and sailing, and had established working trade links along the rivers and coasts of Tamriel. Countless would trade the snowy mountains of Skyrim and Bruma for the prosperous, harbour-side of Anvil any day.

Vigdis, a talented warrior with a liking of the blunt persuasion, shook her head as she evilly regarded the weather. "I'm sorry Maeva, but there are some unfinished contracts that Azzan wants done today, sunny or not. Curse Talos, I spend all morning in worship and this the reward I get!" Vigdis cursed, muttering the last bit under her breath as she took off at a run disappearing in the solid darkness and the heavy rain; her heavy armour heard jingling long after she had vanished.

Sighing heavily, my mother turned to me with a rather hopeful expression on her face. "The Court's Arms?" she said, leaving the question hanging for my response.

I thought it over, even though I didn't really have a choice; wherever she was going I would follow. Like a brain-less sheep. Personally I didn't like the idea. The Court's Arms was all the way on the other side of the district, and I would, without doubt get soaked from head to toe, and probably end up with a fever within a week. Despite that, I just shrugged.

My mother beamed, and took off to the left, through a small gate to run behind the city houses; beside the city wall. Hurriedly I followed, thin arms over my head attempting to salvage as much of my dry hair as possible. The heavy rain drops felt like sharp slices on my skin, stinging my eyes and my face. Swiftly we ran past the onion-like, metal frame structure and behind both the Guilds and the Abandoned Shack, before slipping up through the walk-way between Newheim the Portly's House and Pinarus Inventius' House.

Even though I had only been out in the rain for no more than two minutes, I was now saturated. My mother wasn't any better; her maroon blouse and brown skirt clung to her like thieves to their lock picks. She was beaming at me, looking like the happiest child in the world. At the moment, I couldn't mirror her toothy smile. I was cold, very wet, and now doomed to spend several hours sitting in a tavern watching city folk slowly get drunk over ale and mead.

"What a rush!" She chuckled, wringing her skirts hopelessly attempting to remove some of the water that had soaked in. The water fell like droplets, then like a waterfall, causing the formation of a puddle the size of Lake Rumare on the steps of the drinking establishment. It was in weather like this when I really pitied the local beggars.

My mother, who had now finished wringing out her clothes, reached for the rusty handle of the tavern but not before she, surprising, noticed my hesitation. She raised a dark eyebrow at me, seemingly not being able to form a suitable question.

I looked down at the ground timidly, biting my well-formed lower lip whilst doing so. My dislike to enter the busy tavern and spend the next rain-soaked hours sitting freezing in a dark corner, had turned into a sudden shock of anxiety, causing me to feel light-headed and slightly nauseas. I don't know what had brought along the bout of nervousness, but the way my stomach was upturning and swirling it definitely didn't seem like a very good idea to go in there.

"Um," I hesitated knowing I had to pick the right words lest I wanted my mother to be _too_ caring and refuse to let me leave, "I'm go-going back to the farm," quickly I raked my brain for a creative excuse, "some c- cleaning that I d-didn't get around to doing, before we left for the C-Chapel this morning." I finished just in time to realise that my teeth were chattering together from the cold, and that my hands were slightly shaking.

My Nordic mother looked down on me, her brows now furrowed as she tried to fathom why I would want to walk all the way home when I was obviously freezing my skinny rear-end off in an ever-growing puddle of water. Although she eventually fell temptation the fact that there would be less work to be done when so got home, and the fact she could spend all day, if she wished, flirting with good-looking men without an interference or complaint from her son.

"Hmm, okay then," she hummed with sudden happiness, "as long as you make sure as _soon_ as you get home, you dry off and get into clean clothes. Put your wet ones on the floor by the fire." She smiled at me as I glared at her through my lashes. Pulling the rusted, blue metal door open, she disappeared into the warm haven, shutting the door promptly behind her.

In utter disgust I pulled a face at the door she just left through, a familiar frown plastered across my forehead. I _did_ want to go home, though she could have _at least_ shown a bit more compassion and consideration for poor little me who had to trek all the way through the rain, rather than smiling at me and giving me a few quick instructions.

Hmphing for the umpteenth this morning I shoved my frozen hands into the depths of my pant pockets in pathetic attempt to keep them warm. Seeing as the pants were also drenched, ultimately it didn't make any difference. Slowly, I stepped out from under my little shelter and into the full throttle of the rain. It felt like someone had filled a bucket up with ice-cold water, and decided to tip it over my head. I fought back a shiver as I slowly progressed down the street, not even bothering to run, as I doubted it would barely account for the fact that I was going to get wet anyway. Also, I was kind of feeling a _bit_ sorry for myself, and being out in the pouring rain, head down, added to my façade.

My clothes were thick with water as I made it down to the city's main gate barely three minutes later. The city guardsman, who was tightly huddled under the small under-hang, offered only a small grunt which was scarcely heard over the sound of rain-drops on stone streets. As I passed through the entrance-way, I resisted the childish temptation to pull an undignified face at him. Instead, because of my excellent self-control and self-preservation, I only managed to shiver a glare at him from behind water-droplet covered lashes. I pushed myself through the large wooden gate, past the stables and to the fork in the road; one path leading further up to the Gold Road to my left and the other, to my right, the well-trodden walkway ascending up to our farm.

It wasn't till I reached the bottom of the small hill that the rain and horrendous weather seemed to pick up. The rain was hard and deafening, and now that I thought about it, it was rather uncommon to have this type of weather in the sea-side city. Normally the days were filled with blue skies and puffy white clouds that would roll all the way to the horizon. You could hear the lapsing of the water against the shores, and the distinct calls of the sea-birds and gulls as they endlessly circled the flame-lit Light House, or as they flew out for a meal at sea.

But today was different. Days like these only occurred about every second moon, and rarely were they as powerful as this. Once I had exited the city walls, I saw the extent of the raging weather. Howling winds flew by and I saw how the trees and scrubs were barely rooted to the ground, trying their hardest not to fall victim to the wind. I kept my head my head down, observing my leather boots as I tried to withhold the full, brute force of the wind. My wet, black hair lashed across my pale face, each strike almost feeling like a whip itself. My now blood-shot eyes were squeezed narrow as I tried to avoid the heavy rain-drops that fell at the same angle as the horizon the sun rose from. Every few seconds I had to shut them tight in a shock of pain, as the rain felt as though it sliced through my skin. Quickly, in the blink of the eye, a thick fog began to set in: heavy and near impossible to navigate through. I was thankful that I knew the path home with sure familiarity and didn't require any help from my vision.

Forcing my feet hard against the soaked ground, I ran the remaining distance home, half afraid that the powerful wind would decide to whisk my lean body off the ground and throw me elsewhere in the thick blanket of fog. I reached the splintered and ever-slightly moulding door, shoved the key into the lock and dove through the doorway. Fighting the wind, I hurriedly shoved the door shut behind me, flicking the lock shut after me just in case the wind decided to throw it open in the coming hours. Finally, I turned my back to face the interior of the small farmhouse.

The large gust of wind that entered the house upon my arrival had effectively ruined the small fire that had been sitting alit, peaceful and undisturbed in the small and dirty fireplace, causing the room to be thrown into a chilly darkness. Shivering, I quickly made my way over to the stock-pile of pre-cut tree logs, dry grass and tree needles, as well as a useful collection of sticks and twigs. Grabbing a numb handful of each and three small logs, all of which I paid careful attention too so that I did not touch any of the woods with my wet clothes; I strode over the smoking pile of the remaining fire, and began rearranging the piece of woods with practice and precision.

Placing the dry grass and needles at the bottom, as they would catch the easiest; I then sluggishly created a tipi shaped cone out of the twigs and logs, my fingers not fully wishing to co-operate with me. Standing back to admire my work in all its un-lit glory, I casually raised a slender and wet arm, uttering a small chant that sent a harmless fireball whirling from my finger-tips. Immediately, and like planned, the small twigs and kindling caught light, spraying warmth and welcomed light from the small fire-place. For several moments I sat still in front of the crackling and spitting warmth, feeling a welcoming warm sensation course through-out my limbs and torso. Standing up, feeling slightly warmer, I turned around and for the first time since I had come home, saw the full disaster that was my residency.

My house wasn't nearly as horrible as it looked like on the outside. The interior was neat and orderly, and everything was organised and clean. The food either sat waiting to be eaten on the small, circular table with three wooden chairs; or was stored away in wooden barrels and small woven sacks that sat upright on the floor. Extra cutlery and utensils, as well as other varying knick-knacks sat respectively on aging timber shelves, and all clothes were stowed, clean and folded in a greyish coloured set of drawers. A bed sat its head against one wall, covered with an olive-coloured satin finery, and soft feather-stuffed pillows.

But the whole façade of our humble home was ruined by the rain that had started to leak through the thatch, triangular roof, creating small puddles in various patches across the floor. Lethargically, I moved to remove anything in their paths, and create a small water collecting contraception that would hopefully prevent the flooding of the farmhouse.

I was done within the next five minutes. My 'contraception' so to speak, wasn't quite as elaborate or revolutionary as previously planned. Basically I just clumsily grabbed any pewter cups and bowls that were blatantly sitting unused on the shelves, and arranged them in a pretty looking pattern on the dirty, must-clean-soon floor. After spending five minutes of crawling and kneeling on the ground, I opted to stand up and have a stretch, my knees cracking dramatically as a straightened up. Trudging over to the comfortable, double-person bed, which I didn't have the pleasure of sleeping in, due to the fact that my designated sleeping area was over in the far corner in a make-shift bedroll; I slumped atop it and stared with sudden fatigue, at the triangular-pointed ceiling.

For the first time since my arrival at home, I realised I was still in a wet clothes. Glancing around my body further, I noticed my quick and shallow breathing that came in raspy gasps, and the abundance of goose bumps that littered my body. Curing Arkay, I rolled over lazily, ignoring a final shiver that sent a tremor down spine, and fell asleep face-first in one of the absolutely _divine,_ fluffy pillows.

--

_BANG! BANGG! BANGGGGGGGG!_

I woke with a start to find myself shaking almost fitfully, teeth chattering and feeling Skyrim cold. Attempting to sit up from my sleeping position on the bed, I forcefully swung my legs over the side of the bed: my reaction slow and shaky. Now sitting upright on the edge of the bed, my slightly damp, booted feet sitting on the floor, I blinked my blue eyes several times trying to remove the heavy shroud of confusion from my mind. As my body shook fitfully, I stood up only to find myself stumbling forward and coming very close to falling face-first upon the floor.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!!_

Hesitantly, I turned on uncertain feet to face to thrashing door, that shook on its hinges with every 'BANG!' that it took. I assumed it was my mother Maeva, but my lagging mind didn't register to the fact that my mother had her own key and could let herself in. Awkwardly, I covered the small distance to the door with laboured footsteps and breathing, and raised my hand to unlock the latch that kept the door shut. As my fingers brushed across the rusting lock, I noticed their unusual bluish tinge. Suddenly, I was very interested in the new, unfamiliar colour of my hands, and brought them closer to my clouded eyes for examination.

_BANG! BANG!_

I jolted out of my thoughts, hastily flicked the lock open and with little co-ordination, heaved the door open.

Immediately I saw, and most predominately felt, a number of large, _wet _things jump through the doorway and slam me, back first, onto the ground. Spluttering at the sudden loss of air that had been forced out my chest, I attempted to fling my slowly-reacting limbs around in a pathetic attempt to intimidate my attackers. With my eyes still sealed shut due to onslaught of pain, I opened my mouth to word a powerful summoning enchantment, but instead a felt something thick and woven being shoved into my mouth. The last of my enchantment just turned into a small recital of indistinguishable sounds.

Throwing my eyes open in surprise and confusion, I noted that the burning fireplace had been put out so the faces of my aggressors were protected by shadows. A thickly built man with a barrel like chest which was adorned with an assortment of heavy armour, bent down, forcing all his weight upon my chest. Gaping like a fish out of water, I gathered my arms and raised them to find his chest, attempting futilely to push him off me. I could feel the air slowly being forced out of my lungs. Suddenly another of my three attackers moved forward and pasted something dark to my immediate attacker. I couldn't fully see what it was, but from what I had seen, it seemed like another cloth-like item.

The man above me leant forward and grabbed my head with two gigantic, calloused hands. With a gruff movement he shoved the rough, profoundly textured cloth item over the top of my head. At this point I was thrown into a state of utmost fear. I was yelling at myself in my head, screaming at myself at my inability to defend myself. I was screaming at my suddenly uncoordinated body. I was momentarily too busy struggling through a personal battle to realise that my attackers were speaking.

"…ya sha it's hem?"

"We're at the right 'ouse, so why wouldn't it be him?!" The man atop me retorted a question, irritability clear in his voice. Underneath him I squirmed and shook sporadically, not being able to see anything that was happening due to the cloth they had put over my face and eyes, throwing everything into tiny, light freckled darkness.

"But Fraki," the voice whined, "ya know, it might naht be hem! "Look! Ya sure he's Bjalfi's sun? He dun even look like ah Nord! Tooh slight! Tooh small!..."

Bjalfi! Underneath the crushing man I continued to gasp for air, struggling to stay conscious as little white flecks flashed across my temporarily blinded vision. The rough piece of cloth stuffed into my mouth was causing me to gag furiously, but I knew I had to repress the foul vile for coming up my throat lest I wanted to choke on my own vomit.

"…'as ah prettay little face dun he?"

I certainly was stuck between a heavy, wet, armoured man and a coarse and dirty floor. My three attackers could either be enemies of my father, who had decided to kidnap me because of some sort of vendetta they had against him or his marauder gang; or, the Nine forbid, they _were_ part of my father's marauder gang, and had been summoned to collect me for 'visitation rights'. I definitely didn't like the position I was in.

"Get off him now… Fraki," the new, cunning voice cut through the whining of the second attacker. The third attacker had finally spoken up, a smooth Argonian with a voice that sounded like a leer. I was extremely thankful when the man did get off my chest, leaving a wet patch from where some rain had run off his armour and onto my clothes. Sweet, fresh air flooded my lungs, the cold sensation stinging my throats and nose ever so slightly.

Immediately I was hauled of the ground, causing me to stagger and sway as I was pushed and shoved, hands being tightly bond behind my back. Shakily, I was shoved forward, someone's steady hand on my freezing shoulder. The amused Argonian voice spoke warningly into my clothed ear, "Try anything, and we won't hesitant to kill you." I shivered at the sudden jet of warmth that had come from his mouth, too cold to even reply or answer to his threat.

Hastily I was removed from my small, comfortable and most importantly: warm farmhouse, and out into the freezing rain once more. I was pushed, prodded and shoved and after awhile I couldn't even tell where they were taking me. My mind was so clouded I couldn't delineate left from right. I shook and gagged continuously, my head lolling dangerously to the side; the wet material of the cloth over my head soaking into the wet of my plaid shirt.

We had been walking for awhile now when we started our ascent. It was fairly steep, and I kept on falling clumsily over my own feet on the way up. A small jagged rock, which I unfortunately stumbled on, caused an extremely painful and bloody gash on my right knee that none of my three 'escorts' bothered to even acknowledge.

_Raff! Raff! _I froze at the loud sound that was heard over the heavy down-pour, sending a fear-induced shiver down my spine. Someone angrily slammed a hand into the small of my back sending me sprawling forwards into the grassy mud. An animal approached my body, its wet fur smelling prudent; and rubbed against my clothed head. I jolted upright onto my unsteady feet, attempting to distance myself from the dreaded animal, but my captives held me tight, refusing to let me go as I squirmed and flung my torso around dangerously.

With hands tight on my shoulders, I was held still as I shivered fitfully, whimpering little a small child.

"Slimy lizard, go and calm the dogs! I want them restrained now!"

A predatory hiss came from the reptile-man, "If you want something done, go do it yourself."

"Dammit lizard!! Do not test me! If I had my way, you'd have all of those slimy scales removed slowly and painfully, one by one. Moris go and deal with the dogs."

There was a moment of shuffling, accompanied with loud and vicious growls and barks from the two dogs. Moris, the jittery man with a strong accent was heard, over the rain, yelling obscurities at the two animals. I remained stuck frozen, eyes wide and bulging under the cloth. The rain was still falling strong, the water soaking every inch of my thin body, causing me to only feel colder after every passing minute.

I was jabbed in the back again, and we were on the move once more. I had only moved about ten strides when we halted, the rain stopped overhead. I frowned in confusion; the cloth over my head was really making it difficult for me to figure out my surroundings. I could swear it was still raining, yet I was not getting wet. I couldn't ponder on the idea any longer, as the sound of a door opening was heard, and I was shoved carelessly in.

--

The place I had been taken could only be described as a maze. Up and down stairs, following corridors that veered to the left and to the right; through metal gates and large oaken double doors and past countless marauders of all races. The, what I guessed to be a fort, smelt horribly stale, the atmosphere thick with years of recycled air and smoke from numerous candles and small fires. Spider's webs clung to the wall, and I could feel them tickling my icy wet skin as I blindly brushed up against them. The floor was in atrocious condition, and I couldn't walk two steps without tripping over a loose or uneven slab, or gaping crack.

Every time I fell they would yell at me, the type of harsh unkind words I expected from a marauder gang. I had no idea if this was indeed the same gang that my father had ran off and decided to join with, and I wasn't to intent to find out. I just let myself be dragged along and just _hoped_ that these people were indeed 'friends' of my fathers.

--

It was cold. So unbearably, unbelievably, unfathomably cold. The rocks around me were cold, I was cold, and my clothes were cold and _wet._ Whimpering and shivering I curled up into myself, trying fruitlessly to conjure at least some warmth. After they had taken me on a little walk deep into the fort, they decided to dump me without second thought; into a place they dubbed 'The Pit'. It didn't sound comforting then and it sure as Oblivion doesn't sound comforting now.

'The Pit', as I shortly found out, was a deep, narrow hole in the natural rock, with a bottom that could only be reached by across plank walkways and steep descending tunnels. Normally it wouldn't have been such a successful 'prison cell' seeing as it had one, single, unguarded escape, but someone would have to stupid, or extremely desperate to attempt to climb, and find, these planks blind-folded. And right now, I was both of those things.

But a single, hindering element was stopping my 'almighty and epic escape'. The cold. The frozen chill that raked my body with fierce shivers and fits was bordering unbearable. My body just couldn't function with the numbing pain. I had sub-consciously resorted to craving my fingernails against my opposite wrist as they lay bound behind my back. Those movements resulted in a small amount of rewarding pain: something I could distract myself with. My skin had turned a sickening shade of blue, and puffy patches were starting to emerge like ragged bumps on my body. Thankfully my shivering was starting to seize, although now I was beginning to experience memory skips. When it was at its worst, I would slip into a black void of nothingness, only to be woken up minutes later, by the primitive and instinctive **need** for warmth.

I was swimming in my own void of darkness when I heard a voice talking to me. I burrowed closely into myself, failing to acknowledge the quiet and padded footsteps that moved forward. I didn't pay the person any thought. It was probably just a marauder: the same marauder that brought this frozen disease that reduced me to some under-developed, unintelligent ball of blue and puffy skin. Something warm and delicate took hold of my savaged wrists, gently moving a soft thumb over my bleeding wounds. My mind momentarily blanked with shock, and I found myself in the presence of the thing I desired and hunted the most. As my mind filled with rich fantasies about warm crackling fires and mug after mug of warm, sweet liquids, I pressed closer towards the warmth; the need for heat consuming me.

"You shouldn't tease me like that," the voice came, husky and deadly. A warm hand slid up my arm and over my shoulder to settle affectionately on the side of my neck. I shivered at the revered warmth, licking my dried lips in ecstasy. Fingers moved to rest on a sensitive spot where my decreased heart rate could be heard, matching perfectly with my shallow and forced breathing. I heard the, what sounded like a young male, suck a breath in quickly and reluctantly remove his hand from the position on my frozen neck. I whimpered pathetically, greedily wanting the return of the warmth.

The male chuckled, bending over to sit me upright against the wall, commenting, "If you find me that irresistible…" My movements were sluggishly, and the other man practically had to haul me into a sitting position; my back flat against the wall, and my legs spread out in front of me. My mind was no longer working on a friend or foe basis, but instead judged on warm or cold. Anything warm from now on in was going to be deemed my new best friend.

My new and warm 'best friend' was attempting to move me now. I didn't particularly want to go; the fuzzy haze of a troubling and unsettling future ahead still evident on my mind. Gently he grasped my shoulder and pulled me upwards, hands still settled on my shoulders as I swayed dangerously, my legs seconds away from buckling beneath me. Leaning tiredly against the cold wall behind me, I closed my eyes behind the cloth and slipped unwillingly back into the familiar black void.

--

"… This has been going on long enough Maeva--"

"Why don't you just give me the 'Rock Shatter' back!!"

"It's a mace!"

The voices were loud and angry, stirring me from my slumber. Pained, I attempt to force the rising headache from my skull.

"If it's 'just' a mace, why don't you give it back then?"

"Because it's _my_ mace!"

"Your mace? YOUR mace? It's MY mace, handed down to me from MY FAMILY! It's MY mace Bjalfi!"

"I honestly can't believe your still arguing this when you're being held at knife-point!"

"_I honestly can't believe _you brought Jesper into this! Your own son! If you have done _anything _to hurt them, I swear to Dibella you won't see another day…"

Ugh, even in unconsciousness you can't escape the bickering of those two. And since when was my mother here? Where was here anyway? Slowly and slothfully I became aware of my surroundings. I still had the heavy cloth over my head, and I was still bound and gagged, but something had changed. Somebody's warm body was pressed up against my back, with two snake-like arms crossed over my torso holding me tightly. Someone jetted hot air into my ear and I couldn't suppress the shiver that accompanied it. "Have a nice rest, little one?" The voice cooed softly, and all I could do was tilt my head downwards once.

"… You're questioning my existence at a time like this? Questioning the existence of the person who is the head of a fierce marauder gang and has countless marauders to command around at whim? The existence of the person who has survived three of your 'assassins' to date!?"

Dammit, I was so confused. I could barely stand up alone, yet alone attempt to understand the mindless drabble they were talking about. I didn't know where in the name of Oblivion I was, or if the person I was pressed up against to was friend or foe. I didn't know why I was here, who had taken me, how this whole ordeal was going to turn out or even what the **FLYING BOAR** WAS EVEN HAPPENING!

"Three eh?" My mother voice came again, sounding like a strangled chuckle. "Maybe… sounds like you'll be in for a surprise. I'd probably be watching my back if I were you," she finished sounding absolutely smug about something. Damn her, damn her! Why could she think logically when all I seemed to be able to understand was simple movements, colour and very loud, ear-piercing noises?

Was my mother really implying that she had sent people out to kill my father, just for some heirloom? Black Horse Courier newsflash: turns out I'm a spawn of two Nords with mental retardation. Silently, I sent a nice prayer out to Akatosh above, asking the Divine for forgiveness regarding my parent's stupor and their lack of generally being decent people.

"HOW MANY DID YOU SEND WOMAN?!" My father roared, his voice echoing loudly off the tightly, enclosed walls of the fort; the clamour causing my currently throbbing head to pulsate even more. "I demand that you tell me! At once! I'll slit your throat for your disobedience! Or better still, I'll send for our son! How would you like that Maeva? I'll blind-fold you so you can listen to his screams as he's sent to a slow and excruciatingly painful death. Maybe, we could begin with skinning him alive? How does that soun--"

"Be quiet!" My mother screamed, choking on her tears. Behind my vision-impairing hood, my dulled blue eyes widened in disgust and shock. My…father would do that to me? My own father? I knew he wasn't the most compassionate and caring person on the face of Nirn, but he wasn't a blood-thirsty, insanely violent killer either! At least he wasn't when I last saw him… Was this what he had been reduced to because of a boiling feud over a mace?

I froze in the embrace of young male behind me. My mind went into over-drive, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, there was something I wanted more than warmth; it was the desire to avoid pain. If I was being held captive by marauder, my chances looked slim, _very_ slim. Being carved to death sounded painful, and hanging around with a potential enemy was not something I was going to risk. Immediately I began struggling in my 'best friend's' arms, just wishing to be out of this situation.

My captor seemed to realise when something was up when I began thrashing ruthlessly in his grip. Silently he hauled me backwards and seemingly away from the epicentre of the argument.

"What in the name of Oblivion are you doing? Look I know he's your father and all, but from what he just said, I'm guessing that you're not going to get the most welcoming of welcome parties! So just stay still!" He hissed into my ear, pulling me closer to chest; my head barely reaching up to his under-arm. Because I was still gagged, all I could make out was a petrified whimper. Sighing, he turned me around and held me at arm's length, and looked at where he guessed my eyes were. Suddenly I felt cold again.

"Look kid, I ain't here to hurt you. You're just going to have to trust me, okay?" I looked sceptical under my hood, just glaring into the rough material. Hesitantly, I nodded my head, figuring I had no other choice. Getting his answer, he swung me back around, settling me back against his warm body.

"Just stay quiet okay?" he demanded, walking me forward again, arms re-wrapping around my torso. From the conversation and arguments that were going on between the marauders, my father and my mother, I guessed we were somewhere very close to the action. So close, that I was growing more and more sceptical about the alliance of my warm captor. I froze up momentarily when I heard heavy footsteps approach and come to a stand still at less than a metre to my left. My warmer half behind me, tightened his grip ever so slightly around my chest and shuffled forward silently, pressing me flat up against his chest.

Scared, I hesitantly pressed myself against the heat, entrusting my precious and rarely available trust to the older man.

"Sir," a timid voice came from the marauder standing to my immediate left. I almost had a panic attack when I heard his voice; coming very close to struggling and taking off blind and dumb like a diseased sheep into the darkness. Instead my body fell into a fear-induced paralysis. I scrunched up blue eyes up in cowardice, and my knees felt as though they were to buckle under me as I just willed myself to disappear.

"What?!" My father snapped, ceasing his pacing to storm forward closer to the man that addressed him. I could smell the retched smell that was emitted from his body: a sickly mix of sweat, blood and disgustingly, faeces. I could understand how the marauder felt when he spluttered and stuttered his reply.

"U-um, si-sir, it a-appears that th-th-the boy has dis-disappeared."

"WHAT!?" Bjalfi roared; the sound so loud that I could have sworn I felt the whole inside of the fort shudder. A small piece of rubble dropped to the ground from overhead, as I tried to force the steady ringing from my ears. "What do you mean he's disappeared? People just don't disappear!" He started pacing again, "...Well, they can… he can… he knows how… dammit! He's gagged right? Right? He can't use magic if he's gagged…"

I have no idea what spurred it, but at that moment in time, it seemed as though my captor decided that I didn't need the rough cloth that adorned my face. Slowly and quietly, the man behind me tugged it off, and disposed of it in some way or another.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, I was actually allowed to observe my surroundings. My 'best friend' and I were standing in the opening of a walk-way that lead out of a well-lit room, which currently housed around seven fierce looking, and armed marauders. Two archers, an Argonian and a Bosmer, were standing poised on an upper level, gazing down on the others, thankful for their safe distance from the fuming Bjalfi. The others, who were not so lucky, stood in the corners or against the walls, eyeing the massive Nord with fear and uncertainty.

Somewhere in the middle of the scarcely furnished room, stood my mother, eyes watering and knife pressed against her neck. The Orc that was standing behind her didn't look the slightest bit pleasant; his heavy armour covered in dry, crusty blood, and his yellow, plague-covered teeth jutted out at obscure angles.

"Everyone OUT! I want the whole fort searched! From walls to wall, ceiling to floor!" My father yelled as he paced in endless circles, large hands raked through his hair pedantically. "I want every single shadow checked, double-checked and even triple-checked if you have to! I want that boy! I want people at every door, cataloguing every person that goes through! Report any strange movements! Everyone's hoods OFF! If you assume someone is a marauder, you must identify! I don't want him sneaking out as one of you! Or someone's wench! Fraki! Moris! I want you outside scouting with the dogs! THIS BOY IS LEVERAGE!"

With his final words, the seven marauders took off out of the room, frantically running to complete his orders. A thin and wiry marauder Battlemage almost ran straight into us, but it was narrowly avoided by my captor hauling me away at the last minute. Somehow I got the opinion that no one could actually see us. For the first time in since my arrival, I was relieved.

Only my mother and father were remaining in the large, well-lit room. The floor was covered in a maroon and red woven carpet, and cabinets, chests and beds covered most of the walls. Additionally, a large, round table stood to one side, covered in a limited variety of aging fruits and meats. Bjalfi had turned to face my mother, shoulder slouched and fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Maeva stood still, giving a dead-panned look to my father as she rubbed her slightly wounded neck therapeutically.

"You've changed…" she commented, face suddenly sad as she turned to face the floor, her arms dropping pathetically to her sides. "You're not the same man I married. What have you done with my Bjalfi?"

My father snorted, "People change, as do circumstances. Bjalfi was no one's. He was, and still is his own man." He strode forward, mere centimetres away from my mother. Drawing a deep breathe he continued, "Pass ownership of the 'Rock Shatter' to me, Maeva. Maybe then I'll lessen the punishment towards your son."

"I told you to leave Jesper out of this! He's done other wrong!"

"Oh, but he escaped… and in my fort that is a felony… There is no doubt that we produced a smart one… Young… talented… good-looking… I heard Moris was quite interested in him… Aren't you proud of him Maeva?"

"Proud that he was talented? Or proud that he escaped from this hell-hole only to be captured again and then sentenced to death so his mother can watch?!"

"Oh dear Maeva… you have such little faith in own son's abilities."

"Your people are going to find him and kill him!! You're animals!! Sick, disgusting, barbaric anima-"

"Enough!" My father roared, throwing his hand up and smashing it against my mother's face. Coincidentally she went sprawling to the floor, a large red mark emerging quickly on her right cheek. She let out a small moan as she gently caressed her bruising cheek, cleaning up the small amount of blood around her mouth with the other hand. Immediately my father moved forward to tower over his ex-wife, hand dangerously close to the hilt of the golden mace.

"Stop," the new voice perked up, not just saying the word but demanding it. The man behind me loosened his arms from around my torso and repositioned his hands on the top of my bony shoulders. Gently, he shoved me forward, deeper into the large room, just as both my parents whirled around to face the newcomer.

If I wasn't right in the centre of the action, and if I wasn't being stared at like some magically appearing freak, half-attached to an older male, then the whole situation might have had the potential to be funny. But from where I was currently standing it definitely wasn't. My mother and father were staring me with the widest eyes I have ever seen: their small-balls-of-mush-stuck-inside-their-hollow-heads, threatening to pop out. It was around that time when I guessed that they _might_ actually be able to see me again.

Mentally I cursed, wondering why in Oblivion my captor decided to reveal us now. I felt uncomfortable to say the least. I felt as though I have been thrown into a massive spotlight, and that everyone's attention was now forced on me. And if there was one thing I hated, it was attention. I always got the sickening feeling that I was just an object on display when someone paid too much attention to me. How they could look at you with lust or just curiosity, amazement or speculation. Over the years I found hostility was the best way to deal with attention.

But thinking I was the centre of attention was selfish thinking. The attention was probably on my magically appearing captor, why he had commanded Bjalfi to stop and why he had such a possessive hold on me. Unfortunately, at the moment I couldn't really answer any of those questions.

"Please refrain from hitting my customers… it bad for business," he continued addressing Bjalfi, his voice smooth but frightening cold and harsh. A suspenseful tension hung in the air: the kind when you know something bad is going to happen.

My mother, who seemed to come to her senses first, noticed me with a clear mind. Immediately her face erupted into a wide smile, emitting pure joy. "Jesper!" she shouted, getting up quickly to greet her son. Bjalfi continued to look absolutely shell-shocked, but seemed to come too when he saw my mother taking off. Hastily he launched towards her escaping figure, grabbed her by the waist and hovered his now unsheathed mace, inches away from my mother's skull.

"Who are you?" the large Nord hissed through gritted teeth as he tried to restrain my flailing mother.

"Someone you shouldn't concern yourself with. Now, would you please release your hold on my client so I can get back to my job." Again he demanded, but Bjalfi didn't seem to keen to release his prey. "It's going to be hard to complete my work if you kill my patron."

Client? Job? Work? Patron? Was he saying that he was working under my mother to do something? Bjalfi must have look as equalled confused as I was.

"Who are you?" My father repeated sternly, "Answer or I kill her."

The young male with a hold on me, sighed deeply, obviously annoyed about something. "Look you probably won't like the answer." There was a pause, and my father signalled for him to go on, "Fine… I was employed by your ex-wife Maeva, to penetrate Fort Strand and gain possession of a magical mace called 'Rock Shatter'. Sounded easy enough, until I found out I was the fourth person to attempt such an easy heist." He paused again, squeezing my shoulders gently. Suddenly I realised he was one of the people my mother employed to kill my father and retrieve the heirloom. "Although… I'm not one for effort, or hard-work… and with my client held at knife-point, this is getting bothersome… Bjalfi, you seem like a nice man, so I'll strike a deal."

My father looked sceptical, raising a bushy eyebrow over narrowed eyes. "What kind of deal?"

My captor laughed, reattaching his arms around my torso and leaning forward to place his chin on the top of my head. Something about his movement felt safe. It felt… right. "Well, because I'm a generous young lad, I'll give you two alternatives. The first one is… I'll trade you your wife…for your young and beautiful son here… but then I'll have to kill you to obtain the 'Rock Shatter' in order to complete my mission. Or the second deal, I disappear right now, along with the boy and you can deal with your own problems? How's it sound?"

My mother looked like she was going to be sick. After he said the second offer, her face paled considerably. Her mouth opened and closed like a Slaughterfish gasping out of water. Eventually she managed to get a hold of both her mind and mouth. "Bastard!!" she screeched, her face reddening in fury, "Bastard!! He'll kill me if you leave me with him! Your mission was to get me back the 'Rock Shatter'! And you can't do that if the person who assigned you the work is DEAD! You can't trade me off like some prize sheep! I'm a person… have you read an ethical handbook?! You can't do that…"

She was pretty angry at the moment and I'm positive that if my father were to let go of her right now she would have a made a bee-line for my cold-blooded captor and tear him to small, undisguisable, bloody pieces. Damn, I was angry, shocked and disgusted too. I couldn't just leave my mother here with my violent, savage father. How could he suggest trading me either? Trading me off to him!? Pathetically I made a whimpering noise: a small attempt to communicate my thoughts and feeling towards the situation. I was whimpering regarding my position and my mother's.

"If I pick the second option, I don't want to hear or see from you again," my father stated.

There was brief silence before the man behind me continued, "Bjalfi… I don't really think you're in the position to be compromising the deals… But nevertheless, I concur. What will be your decision? I suggest you choose wisely…"

Bjalfi smiled: a wicked and sadistic smile that only savage and brutal people can pull-off. The smile of victory. "Well, _generous_ sir, considering the current circumstances... looks like I'll settle with option number two."

My mother started to scream hysterically after the news was proclaimed. She was launching herself in whatever direction possible, her arms and legs flying in countless directions. Tears rolled down her reddened cheeks like an endless stream of fear and sadness. Despite her pain and fear, I couldn't really feel anything for her. I felt hollow and cold and that began to worry me. Would I cry when my mother did die? Would I cry if she died right here, right now? I felt no grief or misery knowing that my father would kill her just to relieve himself of the pestering burden that demands a certain mace.

But I think I understand why I don't care. It's because we are nothing. _Nothing_. We are born, we rot and then we die again. To me, that is life. Why does my mother hold out on death? So she can go home tomorrow to tend to her crop? So tomorrow she can go down to the harbour-side and have a drink with the drunken sailors? No. It is because she's attached herself to a black and white world. She's attached herself to things that are _nothing_. She has created a dependency on _nothing_.

When it comes to comparing myself with others, I am selfish. I criticise people when they act too weak, or if they don't handle a situation emotionlessly. I scoff at their pathetic forms as they broke apart at very seams. As they cry and scream and let their uncontrollable emotions free. As they fight for something dear to them. As they persevere, as they _try_, as they _dream_.

But when it comes to following my own rules, I constantly push the boundaries. Today I let myself be consumed entirely for the need of warmth. For the first time in my life, I depended on someone else to do something for me. He helped me stand up and helped me gain necessary body warmth: something that I'm pretty sure I'd be dead right now without. Today, I had been reducing to whimpering like a small and pitiful child with a grazed knee, and shaking sporadically like someone woken up from a bad dream. Today, I had been rendered powerless: a reflection of what I felt I truly was.

Realising there had been a quite long and heavy silence; I turned my attention back to what was happening. My captor was rapping his long and slender fingers against my torso as he pleasantly hummed a tune to himself. Suddenly, he smacked his lips against each other quickly stating, "Hm… Wrong answer."

What happened next was so sudden. My mother and father, whose eyes were currently fixated on my captor, grew impossibly wide; all the colour from their face's draining within seconds. Maeva had grown silent; her body deadly still as she gaped, breathing in and out fitfully. My father looked so scared: as though he were about to wet himself. Abruptly I wondered what they were staring so shockingly at. I couldn't see the body or face or my captor, so I had no idea what he was doing, or what he was.

Simultaneously I got my answer from my father who had finally managed to comprehend one word: "V-vampire!"

My face must have gone as white as those Anvil clouds on a bright and sunny Morning Star day. My breath hitched in my lungs as I froze in a self-induced paralysis.

With ease, my captor-recently-turned-vampire unlatched himself from around me, moved me gently to the side and lunged with ungodly powerful at my father. My mother who was in his path, struggled forcefully out of the way, falling to the ground two metres away from the stunned Bjalfi. Quickly she recovered from her fall, only to stand up and begin hysterically screaming and reciting the word 'vampire'. Scared for her life, she turned around and took off through one of the wooden doors branching off the room.

Bjalfi didn't have a chance as the vampire flew towards his fear-struck body. He didn't even have a chance of move his mace into a defensive position. From where I was standing I didn't see much of the action, and for that I'm thankful. All I saw was the vampire come down onto my father, then Bjalfi's limp body falling to the ground in a growing pool of crimson blood.

I don't know if it was my stereotypical perception of vampires, but I thought any regular fang-baring, blood-drinking savage would be lapping up that precious life-blood that spilled from my father's body. And the stereotypical perception of a normal person would probably be to run around in circles screaming at the top of their lungs, 'VAMPIIIRE!'

But just because I'm not running around in endless circles like some loony on Skooma, doesn't mean I'm not scared. It'd be insane _not_ to be scared. He just killed my father in one fluid movement and sent my mother running for the hills. He was a vampire! The ones that come into your houses at night and suck you dry, only to leave an empty crust so another immortal creature can spawn inside. Damn the Planes of Oblivion, _this _was scarier.

So there my captor stood, towering over my father's body, black-cloaked back facing me. I froze; eyes wide, mouth stuffed and hands bound. I was completely and utterly helpless. Slowly, the vampire turned around, his thin forearms showing under his black clothes. His whole right arm was lathered in crimson liquid; undoubtedly my father's blood. Daringly, I stole a quick glance at my dead father. Sickened, I noted a large, gaping hole going through the entirety of my father's face that showed the blood, flesh and muscle of his insides. I refused to gag with a realised the wound was obtained by the vampire sending his forearm through Bjalfi's Nordic skull.

As my captor began to turn, I saw my short and rarely pathetic life flash before me. I knew I was being melodramatic, but these were possibly going to be my last moments as either a mortal or living creature. So through my mind flashed a black and white montage of my fondest moments. Oh, the time when I cast my first fireball at the age of three. Cue bright and blinding flash. Or my near death experience from drowning in the Anvil harbour when I was seven. Cue heartfelt sniffle.

But no, the vampire surprised me by simply turning around, striding up to me, and speaking: "Let's go," before walking away. Hold your White Horses. Where was my gruesome and horrific vampiric death? I was so shocked by a certain vampire's attitude and behaviour that it left me stuttering and spluttering in my own confused and jumbled head. Firstly, he had acted, according to the stories and legends, very un-vampirish; secondly, he had killed my father right in front of my eyes in some freakish and ungodly one-sided battle; and thirdly, he simply turned to me, face covered in a heavy, black hood and told me to "let's go" before walking off.

Oh Dibella, I am so confused. Why is he acting like that? And do I even _want_ to go with him?

After sizing up my options, I quickly scuttled after my captor, thinking I could either trail after him like a lost puppy, or stand around like the escaped prisoner I was in a fort full of marauders. Also I followed him because I was still cold.

Originally, I thought our 'escaping' from Fort Strand would be as epic as those in the storybooks; a bloody fight against countless marauders and one said vampire. Entrails would splatter the dusted walls and metallic-smelling blood would lather the floor. And I would just stand cowering like a damsel in distress behind a demonic and ungodly creature as he was slowly defeated.

But no, again I was wrong. Well, except for the damsel in distress bit. As I followed after said vampire, the marauders just seemed to stand and stare as we passed. It was rather unnerving to see them still as you slowly treaded past them. Well, again, I was doing to slow treading; the vampire seemed to just ignore them as he strode calmly past. Damn his self-assured and authoritative aura.

I don't know what it was, but I genuinely thought the marauders would be jumping all over him right now, jabbing their swords wherever flesh meets bone. But, surprisingly they weren't. I didn't- couldn't- say a word, the vampire didn't say a word, and the marauders didn't say anything except the occasional sneer or snarl in my direction. The vampire just walked carelessly through the fort, seemingly knowing the way out; I trialled behind him, infrequently having to run forward to catch up with him again; and the marauders just moved to the sides, like the parting of a river.

So through winding tunnels that swerved left and right, up and down countless stairs, and past spider webs with the odd hairy, eight-legged critter; we went. But suddenly, like the full force of the over-powering wind on the top of the Light House; realisation hit me, freezing me in my steps.

Actually, everything seemed to freeze, and for the first time since my 'seizure' I stopped to think. Firstly, I was 'abducted' by marauders; something that I would never, never ever imagine would happen to me. Secondly, I was taken to a fort _full_ of marauders, something I never, never ever would _want_ to happen to me. Thirdly, a vampire, yes I'll repeat, _vampire_, came and helped me when I was weak and whimpering. Fourthly, said vampire happened to kill my father (and technically my mother too, seeing as she ran off wetting her panties in a fort full of marauders) and was now safely escorting me from this ageing stone fortress.

None of that, none of that was meant to happen to me. I simply refuse to believe that this was how some sick person designed my life to be like! I was meant to live an uneventful life. That was my plan: my plan to live a repetitive, sheltered and naive existence! A life stuck in a rut! Now, I couldn't do any of that! What was to become of me now? No parents, legally, no house, no family. I had nothing soft and cushioned to land on as I fell. All my life I lived safely away from that ominous ledge. On the edge, I had created a security rail out of my own ignorance and stupidity, so if I did happen come to close, I could simply bring it up and pretend it wasn't there.

But what happened when I was too pre-occupied and forgot to shut down that part of my brain that was willing to adventure and keep an open-mind? What if I forgot how close to said ledge I really was? What if all this time I had been, little than one step away from that ledge? What if I had been unwillingly forced to move forward and over the edge, away of the world of ignorance and naivety I had known.

I knew I was falling. And when I hit the bottom, I knew it was going to be hard.

**A/N: I feel like I should so apologise for something so, sorry! The first part was probably rather painful to read through so I'm very glad if you made it this far. **

**Reviews? Flames? Criticism? Anything will be appreciated, although positive notes encourage a writer and keep them motivated. **

**I was wondering who you think is the best-looking NPC in Oblivion. I know there is a lot of very fugly looking character that you just walk past and go: "Holy shit, what happened to you?!" but on a rare, rare occasion I've actually come across some **_**decent**_** looking people. For example that Atraena lady (girlfriend of the Skooma-addict you have to kill for that one Dark Brotherhood quest), and there was a random Legion Forester that was wondering around the Inn of Ill Omen at the time I killed Rufio, (although when I went back a second time, I couldn't find him). I'm curious to know if you can find many others.**


End file.
